


Who Are You Really

by SaunterVaguely



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: AU, M/M, Modern AU, mafia au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-29
Updated: 2013-04-08
Packaged: 2017-11-04 12:28:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/393836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaunterVaguely/pseuds/SaunterVaguely
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where Crowley is a gangster and Aziraphale is a librarian.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Irish? Are You Sure?

**Author's Note:**

> I own nothing! This is a work in progress, so any comments or suggestions are greatly appreciated.

 

 

The night is slick and black with rain, drumming down the roof of an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of some tiny English town.

 

Anthony J Crowley, AKA Crawly, AKA The Serpent, twirls a silver butterfly knife through his fingers and wipes the blade on his handkerchief. "This is gonna go a lot faster if you start talking," he tells the hunched man bound to the chair in front of him.

 

The man- Crowley can't be bothered to remember his name; all he knows is that he's a low-ranking member of the Sanctori family- lifts his head and spits at the gangster, a bloody splat hitting his fine Italian shoes. Crowley's face darkens ominously, his gold eyes narrowing.

 

"Right," he says, reaching a gloved hand for the spray bottle on the table behind him. "Just remember, you brought this on yourself."

 

Twenty minutes later he emerges from the warehouse, peeling off the gloves and wiping his hands on his trousers.

 

"The package is still moving; it'll be in London next week," he informs the two figures lurking under an umbrella outside.

 

"Is 'e still alive, then?" The shorter of the two- Ligur- asks with a nod at the doors.

 

Crowley shrugs. "Hang on. I'll check." He sticks his head back into the building and shouts, "Hey, you still alive?" There's a gurgling whimper and he turns back to Ligur. "Yep, all yours."

 

Ligur cocks his pistol and ducks into the warehouse.

 

"That took longer than usual," Hastur, the tall one, notes. "Distracted?"

 

"Christ!" Ligur's voice breaks out from the darkness. "What'd you do to 'is feckin' _face_?"

 

"That'd be the acid," Crowley explains casually. "Don't touch the spray bottle without some gloves." He gins at Hastur, pulling car keys from his pocket. "Sorry, you were saying?"

 

Hastur shakes his head, holding his hands up defensively. 

 

A shot rings inside the building, echoing as Crowley slides into his Bentley. 

 

"Ciao," he calls out the window at his colleagues.

 

"Where's 'e off to all in a rush?" Ligur asks, tucking his gun into his jacket.

 

Hastur squints. "Not sure. Girlfriend, prob'ly."

 

"Crawly? Nar, I thought 'e was bent!"

 

"Boyfriend, then."

 

The two watch as the sleek car pulls out of the lot and onto the highway.

 

"Why's 'e always say 'chow'?" Ligur asks, peering into the distant lights of the city.

 

Hastur shrugs. "'E's Italian, innit?"

 

"Irish."

 

"What? Never!"

 

"Irish," the shorter man insists.

 

"Greek, then," Hastur says uncertainly.

 

"Irish!"

 

Thunder rolls past, and they shuffle toward the black Mercedes under their single umbrella. Hastur lights two cigarettes and passes one to his partner.

 

"...Maori?"

 

" _Irish_."

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we meet the object of Crowley's affections/stalker-like tendencies.

 

By the time Crowley (recently dubbed He of the Dubious Origins And Undefined Heritage) reaches London, the sun has nearly risen, grey watery light through the remaining drizzles of rain. He briefly considers going home and sleeping all day, but as usual he finds himself driving past his flat and making the trip to Soho.

 

The library is five minutes away from opening when he arrives, the lot empty. He parks, grabbing the book from his backseat, and makes his way to the door, keeping the book tucked under his coat as he fights through a sudden burst of downpour. Huddling under the overhang in front of the door, he slips his sunglasses on and knocks at the window.

 

His reason for being here is seated at the front desk, scowling at the blocky computer and nursing a steaming mug of something- _Cocoa with three and a half marshmallows, you stalker_ , Crowley's traitorous brain supplies, and he curses himself for knowing. The reason for his internal debate is one Ezra Fell: librarian, cocoa drinker, and tartan enthusiast (made apparent by his consistently bizarre choices in personal attire- today he's decked out in a lime green shirt under a grey-and-purple tartan wool sweater vest, complete with an orange tartan bow tie and tweed trousers). He's been working at the library for nearly ten years, has a cat named Athena, and dislikes seafood. Crowley knows this because he has been coming to this library at least once a month for the last year and a half. 

 

The frowning man looks up, glasses perched at a weird angle on his chin when he hears a knock at the door, and his face splits into a grin (and oh hell, there's a flash of dimples) as he hurries to unlock it.

 

Crowley greets him with what he hopes is an easy and not at all deranged-looking smile and steps inside. 

 

"You're drenched!" Ezra remarks, flipping the door sign to read "Open!" in big cheery letters and turning toward the kitchenette in the back. "I've got a pot of coffee just made, let me get you a cup..."

 

The instant the librarian's back is turned, Crowley runs a hand through his hair, frantically combing it back with rainwater, and attempts to straighten his suit and tie back into order.

 

"Here we are!" Ezra reappears, bearing a tartan mug (a _tartan mug_ , honestly) and a hand-towel. "Black, two sugars, correct?"

 

"Yeah, that's- yeah," Crowley accepts the mug and the towel, briskly ruffling his hair with it and handing it back (and engaging in another bout of frenzied finger-combing when Ezra goes to hang the towel back up). He takes a long dredge of coffee (good lord that's good after a night spent cutting off people's fingers in the rain and cold) and slips the book out of his coat, still dry and perfectly intact. "Here, I finished _Gatsby_."

 

"Oh!" The blonde plucks the book from Crowley's slender hand and blinks big blue eyes at him anxiously. "What did you think?"

 

Crowley shrugs. "The writing was good, but most of the characters were assholes. I didn't really get the 'romantic' vibe from it."

 

"Yes, I've always felt the same." Ezra frowns down at the cover, then snaps his fingers. "But! I have a feeling you'll like this next one- I set it aside yesterday..." He bustles over to the desk and reaches under it, bringing up a massive stack of books. "Hmm..." He paws at the pile, squinting, then glances around in irritation. "Where have my glasses gone...? I swear I had them..."

 

The dark-haired man clears his throat, steps up to the desk and leans across, grasping the round spectacles which are still somehow precariously balanced on the librarian's chin and sliding them up to rest on the bridge of his nose.

 

Ezra blinks again, eyebrows going almost at his hairline and cheeks turning slightly pink at the same time Crowley realizes how close their faces are now. 

 

"Thank you, dear," the shorter man says with a smile, adjusting his glasses and glancing away. "You know, speaking of glasses, I've never actually seen you without yours." 

 

Before Crowley can move away or comment, Ezra has reached out and plucked the shades from his face. 

 

The dark-haired man winces and snatches them back, but it's too late- Ezra is staring at him with the all-too-familiar look of alarm that Crowley's used to. "Yeah, I prefer to keep them on," he mutters uncomfortably. "No need to freak everyone out just by looking at them, eh?"

 

Ezra blinks and seems almost startled by the statement. "I'm sorry, my dear. Only I've never seen truly yellow eyes before. Are they some of those fancy contact lenses?"

 

"Nah, it's uh- it's some genetic quirk." He sets the glasses back on without looking up. 

 

"How very unusual!" Instead of repulsed, the blonde sounds intrigued. _Librarian_ , Crowley thinks, chuckling. "Is it hereditary? Does one of your parents have the same 'quirk', perhaps?" 

 

The chuckle dies off, but Crowley's demeanor is casual as he shrugs. "No idea."

 

"How can that- oh," Ezra trails off. "Oh, I do apologize."

 

"Eh," the gangster shakes his head. "How 'bout that book?"

 

"Yes! Yes, of course," the librarian does a flustered flap with both hands (which, Crowley resolutely tells himself, is in no way at all endearing and certainly not adorable) and goes bustling back toward the stacks of tomes behind his desk. "Ah! Here it is!" He waves the book victoriously. " _Watership Down_ , an absolute classic. Good English literature, nothing at all like _The Great Gatsby_ , I promise."

 

"Good to hear," Crowley grins, accepting the book. "And as much as our chats are the highlight of my day, and while I know that you simply can't get enough of my charm and dashing good looks, I should probably get going. You'll be swamped with patrons any second now, I'm sure, and I'd hate to get underfoot."

 

The blonde makes a face that looks torn between exasperation and amusement and waves him toward the door. "Go on, then."

 

The taller man saunters away, slowing when Ezra calls after him, "Oh, and Crowley- you really needn't wear those sunglasses around me. I think your eyes are lovely."

 

Crowley stutters to a halt, half-turns, feeling his face go red and his tongue glue itself to the roof of his mouth. Before he can unfreeze and come up with something witty, the door swings open and a harried-looking woman herds in three chattering, sticky children. The moment the woman crosses into the line of sight, breaking the men's eye contact, Crowley slips out the door and vanishes.

 

He spends the day sprawled across his luxuriously soft bed, drinking a protein shake (the remains of a health craze his last ex left him with) and reading. He finishes the book in about four hours, passing out almost immediately after and sleeping until dark.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which snakes are a topic of discussion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh god I'm sorry this took so long.

 

Ezra Fell is startled at 5 am sharp by his cat hooking a claw into his nose, causing him to flail awake and out of his cozy little bed onto the hardwood floor with the kind of shriek that makes him glad he lives alone. 

Alone except for the tabby cat which crouches on his pillow and judges him. 

"Good morning, Athena," he greets wearily. "Perchance, is your food bowl empty?" 

Athena glares at him, tail switching, and jumps down to pad into the kitchen.  

He fumbles around setting his ancient copper teakettle to boil, then opens a tin of food for the cat. While the water heats up, he shuffles over to the large glass tank sitting ominously on the desk in his office (which is really just a corner of his bedroom that he somehow managed to cram a desk and chair into) and peers inside. There's only the slightest suggestion of movement in the darkest corner of the cage. Ezra shudders, double checks the latches on the lid, and goes to get dressed. Twenty minutes later, he's leaving his small flat and heading downstairs to the library below. 

 He's not opening alone this morning, but he can never decide whether opening with Scarlett is better or worse than the alternative. She's carrying an issue of _Guns & Ammo_ and cracking her gum loudly when she arrives, and she flips her glossy red hair over her shoulder and smirks when she sees him. 

"Morning, Ezzie," she drawls. "You look rough. Late night? Maybe Tall, Dark and Cheekbones finally decided to bend you over the counter and have his way with you?" 

As much as he'd like to maintain a professional air of dignity at all times, Ezra goes red as a tomato and chokes on his tea. 

"You dirty minx!" Scarlett cackles. "I knew it; it's always the quiet ones. Librarians are some of the kinkiest bastards out there." 

"For your _information_ , young _lady_ ," he sputters indignantly, "I did not allow myself to be 'bent over' any surface, nor did I allow anyone to 'have his way' with me! I didn't sleep well because I am still unsettled by the massive snake that has taken over my desk."

 "Petsitting not going so well then?" She asks merrily. "I noticed you have yet to deny that you're a kinky bastard. Does your snappily-dressed bloke know? Or are you waiting until the honeymoon to tell him?" 

"He is not my 'bloke'; I do not have a 'bloke' and if I did it would be none of your business!" Ezra snaps huffily as he goes to change cardigans (his current one, a yellow-and-tan striped affair, is now spattered with tea).  

Moments after, in the stairway between his flat and the library, he hears the door open, the familiar tones of a male voice, and Scarlett's unmistakeable laughter, followed by her shouting up the stairs, "Ezra, darling, you have a gentleman caller! Do hurry along with tightening your bodice, now; you don't want to keep him waiting or you'll be a spinster forever!" 

Hating her with every inch of his soul, he stumbles downstairs with one arm in the sleeve of his brown and purple polka dot cardigan, crashing spectacularly into a stepladder before righting himself and coming face-to-face with Crowley, who appears to have been leaning over the counter to see if he was alright. This close, Ezra can smell his aftershave (cinnamon? Some kind of spice) and see the flash of those startling yellow eyes behind his reflective sunglasses. He shuffles back a few paces, looking at his feet, then at Scarlett, who is watching with a terrifying grin, then back to Crowley. 

Crowley clears his throat, offers a crooked grin, and thrusts a ridiculously large to-go cup at the shorter man. "Since you made me coffee yesterday..." 

Ezra takes the cup reflexively, only realizing when he looks down that it's a large hot cocoa with whipped cream, marshmallows and chocolate shavings. "Good heavens," he says. "This hardly seems fair; I gave you a mug of cheap, watery coffee. This appears to be some sort of gourmet dessert in a cup." 

Crowley snorts. "It's only hot chocolate. And I wanted to return this as well." He sets _Watership Down_ onto the counter. 

Ezra's face falls slightly. "You didn't like it?" 

"Don't be daft; I blew through it in one go. It was brilliant, which I wasn't really expecting from a book about rabbits..." 

He beams and bends to pull the book he'd hidden last night from under the counter. "Well, that's wonderful! I actually set this one aside for you, for the next time you came in- it's my personal copy, since we don't actually carry it." He holds _The Screwtape Letters_ aloft with a wry smile. "I have a feeling you'll really enjoy this one."  

"Title sounds dirty," Crowley remarks. 

Behind them, Scarlett snorts and Ezra shoots her a look.  

"It's about demons discussing the manner in which a man's soul might be persuaded from the path of righteousness," he explains primly. "It's very thought-provoking." 

"Sounds perfect," Crowley says as he examines the cover. "Your own copy? I feel terribly special." 

"Yes, well. You should," Ezra agrees, then has to stifle a yawn. 

"You look tired," the yellow-eyed man observes. "Late night amongst the stacks?" 

"Tell him about your massive snake!" Scarlett blurts gleefully. 

There's a collective moment of silence, the kind that is generally reserved for television dramas and meeting in-laws. Ezra doesn't think he's blushed this much in all his years combined.  

Crowley arches a single eyebrow and leans on the countertop, chin resting in his hand. "Yes, Ezra, by all means please do tell me about your massive snake." 

Ezra has to pause a moment to remind himself that wishing for a bookshelf to fall on one's assistant is counterproductive before he turns and explains, "I sort of accidentally inherited a large, ill-tempered python the other day. He- or she, I'm not sure- belonged to some distant cousin of mine whom I had never actually met, but the poor fellow went missing some several weeks ago and since we coincidentally happened to live near each other his landlady asked me to petsit, only the police found the man's remains yesterday and now apparently I've been permanently saddled with the creature." He shudders. "I don't even know what its name is. Or how to go about feeding it." 

"Python?" Crowley seems genuinely interested now, straightening and smiling. "I used to have one of those; big Burmese python called Freddie. I'm great with snakes, you should let me have a look at yours!" 

 There's a beat, during which Scarlett actually falls from her chair due to suppressed laughter, and then Crowley goes nearly as red as Ezra. 

 "I didn't mean-" he blurts, eyes widening. "I just- I mean, you know, I could tell you what- what type of python it is, help you feed it, that sort... of... thing..." 

"Yes! Right, yes, naturally!" Ezra agrees immediately, nodding frantically. "Of course, I- would appreciate any recommendations and insights you might offer-" 

"Closing time!" Scarlett interrupts, elbowing her coworker into silence. "Come back at closing time and you can have the place to yourselves, chat about snakes in private upstairs, all that." 

The dark-haired man blinks at her a few times, apparently having forgotten that she existed, and nods. "Yeah, sure, that sounds good." He glances at Ezra. "Right?" 

"Good, yes!" The shorter man beams. "That sounds lovely!" 

Crowley returns the smile, jamming his hands into his pockets with the newly-borowed book tucked under an elbow as he makes for the doors. "See you then." 

Ezra maintains his cheery glow until the doors close, then turns to squint suspiciously at Scarlett. "Did you have to cut in?" 

She rolls her eyes. "As hilarious as it is to watch you two natter on about snake-handling and such- and believe me, it is comedy gold- there's only so much awkward I can take." 

He sighs concedingly. "Very funny, but why would we need to be alone for him to give me advice on dealing with the evil reptile in my flat?" 

She shakes her head despairingly. "I don't know which one of you I feel worse for. Either way, this is better than daytime telly."

Ezra ignores her and takes a long, slow sip of the cocoa Crowley brought him. It's gone a bit cool from the wait but he feels warmth spread through his bones anyway.  


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Crowley misses a date.

Crowley has just finished lunch when he gets a call from Ligur, informing him that there's a job waiting for him and that they need to meet (in the parking lot of a Tesco, because Ligur wouldn't recognize class if it kicked him in the stomach). Crowley can't be bothered to make a comment on the location; he's still on a cloud of anticipation, his phone set to alert him of the library's closing time. Twenty minutes later he pulls into the parking lot, immediately spotting the two figures of his colleagues lurking around one of the empty spaces.

"Hi guys," he jogs up, grinning enthusiastically.

Hastur squints warily at him. He has a black eye, Crowley notes, and Ligur is sporting a split lip. Both have bruised knuckles.

"Why're you so cheery?" Hastur asks suspiciously. 

Crowley shrugs. "Had a good morning. What happened to you two? Lover's spat?"

They look at each other, then back at him. 

"Yes," Ligur says plainly.

Crowley blinks at them. They blink at Crowley.

"Oh-kay," he says eventually, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "Well, gentlemen, what's the word?"

Hastur digs through the bag at his side and comes up with a thin folder, which he passes over for inspection. It's a series of photos- six headshots, a few pictures of a warehouse.

"Few members of the IRA are meetin' up by the docks-"

"They're Irish, they are," Ligur grunts, staring intently at Crowley, who stares blankly back.

"Okay...?"

Hastur nudges his partner into silence and continues. "Just the four of 'em, shouldn't be too hard-"

"There's six headshots," Crowley points out, shuffling through the file. 

"Right," Hastur agrees. "That's what I said. Six blokes."

"Six Irish blokes," Ligur can't resist adding.

"...Right," Crowley says eventually. "Well, okay, like you said, shouldn't be too hard."

 

~~

 

"I should kill you both," Crowley says conversationally, waist-deep in mud as he drives a spade into the wet earth for the thousandth time. "Who the hell taught you to count?"

"It was supposed to be just the six!" Hastur shouts back defensively, rolling a body  into the grave Ligur's just crawled out of. They're all standing somewhere on the twenty-acre property owned by their employer, purchased for just such an occasion. Centuries later, archaeologists will discover the property and decree it a sacred mass burial ground.

Crowley heaves himself up out of the hole, wincing at the strain on his freshly bullet-grazed shoulder, and kicks the eighth body into the ground. He is not happy. Earlier he managed to accidentally strike an older grave through the one he was currently digging, resulting in a veritable flood of maggots that are even now clinging to his ruined jacket. He flicks one off his shoulder and glances at his phone, groaning when he sees that it's well past one in the morning. He hopes Ezra will forgive him. 

"Seriously," he says aloud. "I should just garotte the both of you and dump you in here with them."

Ligur makes an offended noise and begins quickly packing the dirt down, side-eyeing him warily.

Crowley sighs. "Never mind, we're nearly done anyway." His head is really starting to throb, and he leans heavily on his spade. 

"Oi, you know that shot that grazed you?" Hastur asks, squinting at him.

"Uh huh?"

"I dun't think it grazed you."

"Wha?" Crowley turns his head sluggishly to see that his right arm is almost entirely soaked in blood, his shirt and jacket wet with the growing stain. "Shit," he says before the ground hits him.

Hastur and Ligur watch their colleague fall, then trade glances with each other.

"Do we leave 'im?" Ligur asks carefully.

Hastur considers. "Is 'e dead?"

The squat man pokes at Crowley with a toe. "Nope."

"If 'e ain't dead that means 'e'll wake up. And if 'e wakes up and sees we've left 'im bleedin' in the mud with maggots in 'is hair..." Hastur lets the sentence hang in the air ominously. 

Ligur's eyes narrow as he imagines the outcome, then widen in terror. 

"Get 'im in the car, then?"

"Get 'im in the car."

 

 


End file.
